


You and who?

by Hypatia_66



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Captivity, Challenge Response, Gen, THRUSH
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-12 04:08:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16865854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hypatia_66/pseuds/Hypatia_66
Summary: LJ Once upon a time affair. Prompt: the first two linesCaptured by an eccentric who demands that Napoleon kill his partner, the agents argue





	You and who?

"The choice is yours, Solo,” stated the agent's latest captor. "Either you kill your partner quickly, or I kill him slowly. I'll give you both five minutes to talk it over."

“Look, we only asked to use the telephone. Your guards didn’t need to be so hasty.”

There was a sheen of sweat on their tormentor’s brow. He drew a pristine handkerchief from his pocket with a gloved hand, wiped his brow and threw it at the guard.

“Get rid of that,” he said.

The guard accepted it stolidly and, to the two agents’ surprise when the man had gone, threw it on the floor and went out, locking the door behind him. Bill picked up the handkerchief and put it in his pocket then said lightly, “Is this a Hobson’s choice, a Morton’s Fork, or just a dilemma?”

“What? We’ve got five minutes and you want to discuss semantics?” Napoleon snapped.

“Certainly. It makes the choice easier if you know _why_ you’re making it.”

Napoleon rolled his eyes.

“It’s not a choice of equivalent options, so it isn’t a Morton’s Fork. Agreed?”

Napoleon sighed. Who the hell was Morton and why did he have a fork?

“Hobson’s choice is an illusory one between something and nothing, whereas a dilemma is a choice between two undesirable options.”

“I think, in my simple way, it’s a double bind,” said Napoleon, looking at his watch.

“That’s another way of looking at it. Now, the next question to resolve is how much it _matters_ to you.”

“That’s the point of a double bind. So we should discuss what to do, not whether it matters.”

<><> 

The five minutes were up. The two agents were sitting with their backs to each other, their arms folded. No decision had apparently been made or acted on. When the door opened, they turned and two pairs of eyes met those of their friendly neighbourhood psychopath, who flinched a little.

“Have you given my offer some thought, Solo?” he said stiffly.

“ _Mr_ Solo to you,” said Solo’s partner.

“Shut up, Kuryakin.”

The agent looked at him unreadably, then turned to Napoleon who said, “How am I supposed to kill him? How would _you_ do it? Or are you only interested in killing him slowly?”

“Correct. I’ll take my time – one limb, one organ at a time.”

“Something really went wrong with your potty training, didn’t it,” said the younger man. “Do you wash your hands a lot, too?”

The psychopath frowned and said, “How did you kn…” and stopped.

“You’ll have to wear rubber gloves and apron, of course,” said Solo. “It’s very messy when you catch an artery, or even a vein, so you’ll need a mask, too.”

“And then there’s the smell,” put in his partner, “specially when you cut into the alimentary canal. Disgusting. I really don’t know how you can.”

“Oh, I can, very easily. I have assistants.”

The young man laughed. “Hah! So, you can’t actually do it yourself. He’s a coward as well, Napoleon.”

“As well as wh…? … Make your decision, Solo!”

“ _Mr_ Solo, to you,” repeated Solo’s partner.

“If you don’t shut up, I’ll…”

“You and who?” Solo’s partner stood up suddenly and looked down at their captor, who stepped back suddenly and said, “Don’t touch me!” and shrieked when a large hand reached for him.

“Shouldn’t that be “whom”, chum?” said Napoleon.

“No,” said his partner.

“Are you sure?”

“Quite sure.”

The psychopath had relaxed, the two agents were chained; they couldn’t get at him.

“Kuryakin!” he said, peremptorily. The two agents ignored him and continued their argument about English grammar. He repeated it, louder. Solo looked all round the cell and said, “No point calling _him._ He’s not here.”

<><><> 

 

It had all seemed fairly simple. Napoleon and Illya, called in to join the mission to capture a dangerous new Thrush ally, arrived from Heathrow and met the two British colleagues who were to partner them on the mission. It didn’t seem likely that much effort would be required to arrest this man’s career with Thrush. He was eccentric to the point of absurdity, apparently.

“He’s a rich American, which is presumably why you’ve been dragged from New York,” said Andy. “He’s bought the lordship of a manor near Wallingford. That includes the manor house itself, of course. And he’s been enjoying his manorial rights rather too enthusiastically,”

“You can still buy manorial rights under property law? A bit feudal, isn’t it?” said Illya.

“Yep. It _is_ a remnant of the feudal system. And this eccentric chap, having bought the manor, thinks he can do pretty much what he likes on his own land. He’s not like the old Squire. He’s quite unpopular.”

“What does he do?”

“He shoots any dogs or cats that stray into his grounds, won’t pay the fine; threatens to shoot anyone who tries to come into his grounds, even the postman. Doesn’t like to be touched, apparently – flies into a rage if anyone tries to shake hands. Bit weird.” Andy evidently possessed the gift of understatement.

“And that’s what you call eccentric?” Illya’s tone was frosty.

“Yes, sorry. He was originally thought to be _just_ eccentric, but actually he sounds a bit psychotic.”

“He must have staff?”

“Must have – it’s a fair-sized estate, after all. He also lays claim to other people’s land, so it’s growing. The house is pretty big, too. It’s attached to a Norman tower, 11th or 12th century, you know.”

“Don’t your police have anything to say about his behaviour?” said Napoleon.

“I’m sure they do but they say he bribes the chief constable – it’s true he has warned us off. We haven’t told the chief constable about you two.”

They agreed to split up as the two English agents knew the locale: Napoleon would go with Bill, Illya with Andy.

<><><> 

 

Their captor stared at them angrily. “You say you’re Napoleon Solo. I’ve been told about you, so he _must_ be Kuryakin. Blue-eyes, collar-length blond hair, …”

He would have continued to itemise further but Napoleon interrupted. “And quite short,” he said. “Stand up again, Bill.”

Bill rose to his feet. “I’d say he was nearly six feet, wouldn’t you?” said Napoleon. “Illya Kuryakin’s shorter than me.” And he too stood up.

“So, who is this?”

“He picked me up when my car broke down. I don’t know him at all and I think it’s a poor reward to be murdered just for helping out.”

“You’re lying.”

“Nope.” Napoleon had no problem with lying to Thrush’s people.

“Bah! I don’t believe a word of it. You can kill him anyway – and if you don’t I will… slowly.”

“He’s bigger than me. He might fight back,” said Napoleon nervously, thinking that this might actually be true.

“You can kill each other, then.”

“What for – he’s nothing to do with me and, anyway, don’t you want me alive? Thrush might not care about _him_ , but they won’t be pleased if _I_ die, surely?”

Their captor looked momentarily at a loss. Napoleon tried again. “Why don’t we pretend to be civilised and talk this over?”

<><><> 

 

When Napoleon and Bill failed to check in, Illya and Andy drew the obvious conclusion. “He’s presumably got your partner and my colleague isolated in that tower,” said Andy.

“Better get them out then.”

The walls round the manor house were about eight feet high. They drove past the gate noting the two guards. Parking the car some distance away and out of sight, they walked back and followed the wall round the house, looking for anywhere that might not be overlooked. Illya could see the ancient ivy-clad tower now. “Let’s try here,” he said and jumped for the top of the wall, pulling himself up carefully to look over. Andy watched as his muscles bunched under his jacket and envied his athletic control.

“It looks clear,” said Illya, dropping a little. “Give me a push, would you.”

Andy obliged and with the extra leverage, Illya got onto the wall and lay flat. “I’m going to see if I can climb up the tower and get in through one of the windows. Keep out of sight and watch, I’ll see you shortly.”

“Be careful,” said Andy, slightly horrified. The look he received in return might have shrivelled a lesser man.

Illya dropped down and crawled under a convenient bush from which he could see how the land lay. The place seemed deserted. He took a chance and crossed from shrub to shrub to reach the side of the tower that wasn’t overlooked from the house.

The main stem of the ivy that grew up it had been cut and the ivy was dying, which was a blow. It had looked promising from a distance and it was the only way up to any of the windows from the garden. He tested a thick branch of it… not yet too brittle… and started to climb.

Ivy stems broke away under his hands as he tested each handhold but enough of it held. At a narrow window, some fifteen feet up, and shielded by a loose branch, he looked inside.

While it was a pleasant surprise to hit the jackpot first time, it wasn’t easy to see how to proceed. An altercation was clearly taking place but he had arrived in time to see the captor leave the room and slam the door.

With one knee on the sill, and one foot resting insecurely in a tangle of ivy, Illya broke the window with his elbow, startling the chained occupants who jumped to their feet in amazement. Andy, watching from beyond the wall, released the breath he had been holding.

“How the hell did he get there?” said Bill.

“There’s a lot of simian in his ancestry,” replied Napoleon, watching his friend clearing the glass. Illya squeezed his slim body through the window and jumped down to the floor. Napoleon looked him up and down and said, “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet. What kept you, Romeo?”

“The ivy kept breaking,” Illya replied, addressing the matter of their chains with the various devices he had brought with him.

“We’re a long way up,” said Bill, rubbing his wrists released from the cuff. “How did you know we were here?”

“I didn’t. It was just luck – probably something to do with him,” said Illya sardonically, indicating his partner.

“Solo’s luck,” said Napoleon complacently.

Illya was now examining the thick oak door. “It would be a pity to spoil a rather fine eighteenth-century lock,” he said.

“Eighteenth-century? How do you know?” said Bill.

“It looks like one of the earliest cylinder locks,” Illya replied. “I don’t carry the right tools for picking it and I don’t want to destroy it unnecessarily.” He looked around curiously. “I wonder why it was installed? Perhaps this was a muniments room.” Napoleon’s cleared throat brought him back to matters in hand, and he said, “Why don’t you create a disturbance and get _them_ to open it?”

As Bill and Napoleon swung their chains at the wall and the door to make a lot of noise, Illya stood to one side poised to dart whoever came in. The first one in was naturally the guard who went down with a crash. No-one else came. As Napoleon and Bill took his keys and the gun, Illya, now peering down the dark passage, said, “Only one guard? Where are they all?”

“We’ve only seen the one,” said Napoleon.

“There are only two on the gate, and none in the grounds,” said Illya. “Is this all smoke and mirrors?”

“Perhaps they’re out shopping,” said Bill facetiously.

“There must be others. Where’s the boss of this outfit?” Illya demanded, pulling out his communicator to call Andy.

“Let’s go and find out.”

<><><> 

They carefully negotiated the narrow treads of the stone spiral stairway down to the foot of the tower and found a door that led into the manor house. Illya had less compunction about blowing an early-20th-century lock, so access was fairly simple but it caused outrage in the owner who heard the bang. He came out into the corridor shouting and never knew what had hit him when a sleep dart felled him.

“Have you still got that handkerchief?” said Napoleon to Bill.

“Here,” said Bill.

Napoleon used it to gag the sleeper then tied him up in the chains. They dragged him through to the front of the house – which appeared to be completely devoid of staff – and found Andy waiting for them.

“I’ve temporarily locked the door to the basement – we can pick up the kitchen staff, or whatever they are, later – and the two guards on the gate have been disposed of,” he announced, “Back-up is dealing with all the others.”

“All?” said Napoleon. “There are only two, as far as we know.”

“He makes all the others stay in a kind of barracks, on the estate. Can’t bear them near him, apparently.”

“You mean this idiot achieved your kidnapping with just three men?” said Illya, looking at his partner with a distinctly readable expression.

“He was very persuasive,” said Napoleon.

“He’s a poor kind of villain,” said Bill. “Seems to have been more afraid of us than we were of him. Definitely not much of an asset to Thrush.”

Illya was seriously annoyed by these comments – his hands and face were filthy, his elbow was bleeding from the broken glass, his jacket was torn and his shoes badly scuffed; furthermore, the rest of his clothing, his hair and his nose were full of the dust that ivy always contains. The look he gave Napoleon promised nothing good. Bill, he ignored.

The three guards and the villain of the piece were now waking up and moaning. Their tormentor, indeed, was squealing into the handkerchief in revulsion. “What’s the matter with him?” said Illya and was baffled by the explanation. “Doesn’t like dirt?” he echoed, looking down at the man and gesturing to his own problems in that respect.

Back-up arrived at last and took the captives away. The four agents returned to their cars.

<><> 

It was on the flight home that Illya began to develop what appeared to be a streaming cold. He cursed the British climate – a little unfairly – the English summer weather had been dry and unusually balmy during their stay. By the time they arrived in New York, he was running a high temperature and coughing helplessly. Napoleon was concerned enough to insist on taking him to headquarters where he left him with the medics, much against his will.

“Has he been poisoned?” he asked the doctor.

“I don’t know yet. It could be just flu. What’s he been doing?”

Napoleon explained and when the doctor heard about his daring climb, he looked relieved and said, “That’ll be it. Ivy contains spores and bacteria that cause flu-like symptoms. Some people are particularly susceptible and can be bedridden for several days. It’s not infectious, by the way.”

“I’ll tell him,” said Napoleon. “He’ll be thrilled.” He went to sit beside his partner who eyed him resentfully.

“It was the ivy,” he told him. “Our villain wanted me to kill you quickly – if I didn’t, he said _he_ would do it slowly. Looks like he won.”

Illya’s hectic flush deepened but before he could speak, he started coughing. Napoleon raised him and held a glass of water to his lips when the paroxysm ceased.

“By the way,” he said, “How’s your English grammar?”

“Why?”

“Bill was channelling you at one point. I just want to check.”

Illya listened to the question and thought for a moment. “It’s not the object of a verb – so it’s neither accusative nor dative,” he said huskily. “It’s the subject – nominative – so it’s who, not whom.”

“Oh. So he was right.”

“Channelling me, you said, so of course he was.”

<><><><> 

**Author's Note:**

> You don't need to know, but anyway:
> 
> Morton’s fork: a type of false dilemma coined from a 15th-century Lord Chancellor, John Morton, who raised taxation funds for Henry VII, by saying that someone living modestly must be saving money and could therefore afford taxes; and that someone living extravagantly must be rich and ditto. Neither idea is evidence of proof. Neatly summed up as “Heads I win, tails you lose”. The fork is probably a reference to methods of persuasion.
> 
> Hobson’s choice: a free choice in which only one thing is offered – ‘take it or leave it’. Originated with Thomas Hobson (1544-1631), a Cambridge livery stable owner who offered customers the choice of taking a particular horse or none at all.


End file.
